True to its name, the Suds And Sods pub was teeming with both. Charlie walked through the front to find the back of his closest friend, Martin Shields, haloed in the amber haze of a hundred backlit bottles at the bar.
As usual, he was talking too closely to someone; a giant twenty-something looked agitated for having his space invaded. Martin was always a friendly sort of drunk, but in the giant's defence, he was shouting in his face.
"It does! It does!" the British voice blared. Charlie saw him slap the counter with an adamant hand. "The backbeat of this horrible song is exactly like 'I Really Love Ya Aileen'! They must have sampled it."
Charlie remained a few steps away hanging his coat on a communal rack. The man next to Martin was leaning as far away as possible without giving up his seat, obviously trying to watch the baseball game on the screen above him in peace. Martin, God love him, wouldn't take the hint, and likewise leaned in on the stranger to sing his point along with the music playing in the background.
"I really love ya, Aileen and that much you should know.
I'd love to make you my wife, but yer mother has to go!
She sings her hymnals backwards and she stands up on one toe!
I really love ya, Aileen, but my answer must be no."
He really was a gentlemen, straight sober throughout his working day and piss drunk from the five o'clock whistle to sunrise. He had a youthful face for a man of forty-eight, in spite of dozens of tiny bumps of milia which dotted his eyes. He had a turned up nose somewhere between an elf's and an aardvark's and rosy cheeks thanks in part to the broken capillaries of binge-alcoholism. He reminded Charlie of Jimmy Cagney, not only because of his short, stocky stature, but also because of the way he walked with his posterior tipped upwards. He was thrown out of so many places by the seat of his pants it was as if his good nature extended to permanently taking a position to make the job easier for bouncers. As Charlie watched Martin lean into the ear of his angered neighbour it appeared as though this very shape was the only thing keeping him from slipping right off his stool.
"I really love ya, Aileen and this I do avow!
I'd love ya 'til forever but yer mother is a cow!
She cursed me with her good eye and she beat me on me brow!
I really love ya, Aileen, but I think I'm done for now."
"For Godssakes! Shut up!" the giant bellowed.
"You don't know it?" Martin seemed disappointed.
"I heard enough to know I don't give a shit!"
"But you seriously don't - Charlie! Hey, it's me best mate, Charlie!" Martin hit the man with his knuckles to get him to look.
"Your mate," he sniffed with a look of disgust. "Figures."
"Tell him, Charlie. Tell him it sounds like..." He counted a few beats. "'...take you by your hand and throw your mother's out!' It's from the old country. Let's drink to the old country!"
Here Martin's reluctant seatmate erupted. "Yeah, well this is the new country and I'm not drinking jack all with you or your fruitbag boyfriend, so take your old man sing-alongs and screw the hell off!"
"THE WOMAN'S ALWAYS YELLIN' AND SHE ONLY STOPS TO SHOUT!" Martin sing-barked in his face.
Charlie put a hand on his friend's shoulder to rein him in. "Martin, enough. You are right though."
"Sure I'm all right," Martin hiccuped, suddenly looking a little pale. "Just had an iffy curry before."
"I meant about the song."
"I AM right! You hear that, Baseballs?"
The giant's paw easily covered Martin's face as he shoved him off his seat. Had he not been so enraged he might have been impressed by Martin's most remarkable ability - to completely topple over without spilling a drop of beer. Ever.
Charlie stepped in.
"I'm very sorry. My friend is clearly drunk and you seem, well, intolerant so why don't we just move down the bar and leave you in peace?"
"What did you call me?" the giant demanded, clenching his fists and widening his shoulders as he stood.
"Aileen, helleww?" Martin said, rolling his eyes and sipping his beer as he was once again upright.
"Let's go. You and me. Outside. Now!"
Charlie intervened again. "Sure. This singing drunk has got to be stopped and violence is the only way to do it."
"Like that tuba player takin' the piss out of them Neo Nazi rallies by playin' a fart march," Martin agreed making the opposite point.
"Martin," Charlie warned.
"I could literally watch those videos all day!"
"Yes me too. Now shut up."
"You calling me a Nazi now?" the giant said, grinding his jaw.
"Not at all," Charlie said. "While it's true all Nazis are assholes, not all assholes are Nazis. If they were I'd probably spreche besser Deutsch."
The giant threw a punch which Charlie deftly dodged. It stunned Martin whose sinus deflated with a bicycle horn beek as he staggered backwards then forwards, beer still level. Next the giant aimed a punch at Charlie's face, but Charlie was able to jam his arm, driving his own fist into his attacker's side and an elbow into his chin. Spinning out of the way of a final blow gave Charlie the opportunity to get the giant's free arm turned behind his back where Charlie threatened to break it, but not before that last punch nailed Martin straight in the gut. The Suds' bouncer tapped Charlie out.
"That's it buddy," he said escorting the infuriated twenty-something out. Charlie turned to face Martin who was holding his stomach.
"Sorry about that. You okay?"
"Yep. Just top me up and - "
He didn't get a chance to finish. Instead he threw up bright yellow all over Charlie's feet.
"My shoes! MY SHOES!!! "
Halfway across the world, the hairs on the back of the neck of the finest shoemaker in Italy stood up.
Charlie fought the urge to back hand Martin, paralyzed from the knees down.
Martin belched out an apology followed by, "Ahh, that feels better."
"All day!" Charlie shouted, though it was practically a screech. Martin didn't follow. "Do you know how long it took me to find the perfect pair? These were Italian, you dumbass!"
"Now they're Indian." Martin grinned. He began to laugh and when Charlie didn't, he went blank, recognizing the new threat. "No?" he asked timidly.
"Take off your shoes."
"No!"
"Take off your shoes you abysmal septic tank!"
"No. It wasn't my fault." A few cautious steps moved Martin backwards. "How come you're worse on me than you were on him?"
"He missed! Take them off!"
"NO!"
Martin turned and ran behind the bar. The well-paying regular he was, the bartender let him. Charlie ran after him, gripping the counter and pulling down a long tray of shaved ice. Martin grabbed the seltzer hose and thought better of it immediately. Around and around they went until Charlie was finally able to trip Martin with his wettest foot. Martin hit the floor so that Charlie was able to pin his legs to the ground with his knees and pry Martin's shoes from his feet. They were only a half a size too small but they would do.
"No fair," Martin winced as Charlie put his new shoes on and hobbled back to a bar stool where he ordered a beer and let his outrage subside.
Martin sat up, bested but not embarrassed. He wiggled his toes a minute thinking. Rather than wear Charlie's cast offs all night, he borrowed a set of towels from the bartender and diapered his feet. En route to rejoining Charlie, he chucked his beloved dress boots in the trash, only to have second thoughts a moment later. He shuffled back to the bin, fished them out and asked the bartender for a 'to go' bag.
"Don't bother," Charlie said. "I'll never wear them again."
"Mind if I do?"
Charlie exhaled loudly and ordered his friend a beer too.
A few truce pints later, a thought occurred to Martin. "Why did you come here tonight anyway? It's not the weekend."
Charlie took the letter from his jacket and handed it to Martin.
Martin read aloud.
"'Dear Messengers alumni, you were not easy to find. If you're reading this letter, and we hope that you are, it is because we could not find you on social media to give you the exciting news! This year's Messengers High School Reunion is being held the same week as our town's 175th anniversary! We invite you to come home July 31st and re-connect with old classmates as well as old neighbours for this wonderful double celebration!' That's a lot of exclamation marks," Martin said. He skipped a bit before reading, "'It's been twenty years since we've seen you and we're dying of curiosity. Some of you may be parents, may have moved to foreign lands, may have pushed yourselves beyond your limits, may have dealt with hardships and triumphed', etc. Well what if I haven't?" Martin asked. He mumbled part of another sentence.
"...'so why not come for both and spend a week with old friends creating new memories? Just fill out the enclosed form or go online'..."
"Well?" Charlie said.
"Well what? Are you going?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"Why would you? Your life is amazing. No need to rub it in."
"I can think of one reason," he said reluctantly.
"Don't you usually need three?"
"Just one, Martin. The one."
"Ahhh-ohhh! Her! Old Mystery Lips, hey? The one that got away. In that case, why not? What's the plan then?"
"Not sure yet but I'd like to get an answer once and for all. And why wouldn't they give it to me? What'd be the point in hanging onto a joke that wasn't funny in the first place, right?"
"Plus they'll all be drunk!"
"I'm fairly confident I've got the skills to turn the hesitant on my own," Charlie said, his mood improving. He squinted, imagining it.
"Think you can get the girls to kiss you again?"
"If they're open to it, I will," he said imagining that too, this time with a small smirk.
"I'm assuming you want me to come?"
"It had occurred to me to ask you. I'd feel less conspicuous and you are my best sounding board."
"In vino veritas?"
"Exactly."
"Could be fun. I've got loads of saved vacation time. Could be a lot of divorcees and never-marrieds getting less picky by the day."
"You don't need someone less picky. You're great."
Martin clinked Charlie's mug. "You're not so bad yourself."
"Thank you."
"You're sort of striking looking too."
"Oh, sure..." Charlie demurred.
"No I mean it. You look like Clark Kent without his glasses, if I wore glasses and I forgot them."
The comparison amused Charlie. "Like a blurry Superman?"
Martin scoffed good-naturedly, doubling his chin into his neck. "Modest much?"
"Well you said - "
"Superman he says! We think a lot of ourselves don't we ?"
"But Clark Kent..."
"If Superman was the name of a wet cat."
"Okay, well..."
"And he was squeezing through a fence!"
"All right forget it!"
"You know why none of them agency girls ever done it for you?" Martin asked, poking Charlie in the arm twice. "Because you're a purist. You're a romantic."
"Am I?" Charlie asked with a sigh that had to stretch for modesty. "Romantics see things the way they want to. I want to see and experience something true and have it be that thing I can't live without."
"But you can be mean sometimes," Martin said, steamrolling right over the end of Charlie's thought.
"What?" Charlie balked.
Martin blinked. "Nasty and not in the fun way," he said causing Charlie's dark brows to mesh together. "Short fuse, tightly packed powder, but thankfully slightly damp."
"Surely you're not suggesting that it's unprovoked," Charlie protested, pointing at the J-Cloth shoes Martin dangled in his direction.
"I didn't say all the time."
"And why in your mind am I both 'wet' and 'damp'?"
"Cause you're harmless. You're only mean 'cause you're lonely. And you're lonely 'cause you won't settle."
"Why should I settle?" Charlie asked defensively.
"So you won't be mean, you daft prick." Martin slapped his hand on Charlie's back and rubbed him like a big brother might.
"That's not...I don't think I..."
"What happened to that nice girl you were seeing? The parking attendant?"
"She was nice is about all can say."
"What about that vet with the curly hair?"
"She was not nice. Plus, she smelled like dehydrated liver treats."
"I like liver. Never been much for kidneys though."
"Well I'll get Elena to whip you up a batch. If you're lucky she might add them to her tripe soup. She said tripe was 'the mushroom of the cow'." He rolled his eyes upwards. "I can't."
"Makes an awesome cabbage roll, though."
"Just pull out the pin and serve."
"If she's no good, why keep her on?"
"Her ironing is flawless. Look at this." He crunched the collar of his white dress shirt in his hand. It wouldn't crumple. "She doesn't even use starch. I think she just threatened it."
"Maybe you should marry her then."
"Please. Besides, she killed her last husband." He explained the situation to Martin quickly before moving on. "Who's talking about marriage anyway?"
"What are we talking about?"
"How many times have you been in love, Martin?"
"Loads of times!"
"That's not really love, is it?"
"Was to me, Judgey McJudge and isn't that the point? Love exists outside of definitions and you're trying to fit it on a flow chart. You're not talking about love anyway. All this time you've been talking about chemistry and chemistry is mutable, susceptible to variables. What if you find out who she is and you don't even like her? Or you did but that spark is gone? Hmm? What if she's got seven kids and she's closed for business? What if she's got a mustache? A full set of hammer toes? What if she's in love with someone else? What if she doesn't remember kissing you and has never given it another thought?"
"Honestly if I could prove definitively that this feeling I'm chasing doesn't exist outside of that one moment in time I could die a happy man. And probably in the arms of someone I'm very comfortable with!"
"That's the spirit!"
"I don't believe perfection exists outside of nature, but since I can't prove it, isn't its potential worth pursuing?"
"Perfection is the picture on a puzzle box. Inside there are always a few pieces missing, but you can still have fun putting what's there together."
"I am good at puzzles. But I don't really know love and I hate not knowing things."
"So you think you're going to go back home and find love?" Martin asked, skeptical.
"No. I think I'm going to go back home and get this...thing out of my system so I might actually have a chance of finding love in the future."
"A romantic. Just like me. Ah, there isn't anything I wouldn't do for love. Except murder. We're just a couple of poetic hearts, you and me. When you think about it, we're pretty special."
"We're just like everybody else. A couple of barnacles on the hull of life wondering where it all ends up."
Martin's nod turned into a head shake. "I don't think barnacles wonder. And didn't you sell a rudder patent to that company that builds ships for the navy?"
"More or less, yes."
"Well you can't be barnacle and builder."
"Then I guess I'm pretty special at least," Charlie said, only a little serious.
"And I've just been putting the barf in barfly," Martin sighed.
"Poetic in words and deeds."
"Cheers."